


Silence of the Sirens

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fairy Tales, First Kiss, Fluff, Fourth Wall, Heartbeat Kink, I Don't Even Know, John Watson is a Saint, Magic, Magical Realism, Mild Sexual Content, Mythical Beings & Creatures, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sherlock's Violin, Sirens, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a myth and John is a human he's always known and their story cannot possibly have a happily ever after.</p><p>Can it?<br/>.........</p><p>“I need your heart,” Sherlock tells him matter-of-factly. “Because I don’t have one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence of the Sirens

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on a kink meme prompt for a non-human character having a fascination for something entirely human-- say, a heart beat? Where that turned into Sherlock as a mythological character obsessed with John's heart, I will never know, but this is one of those things that spiraled so rapidly out of my control I don't know whether to run and hide or apologize.
> 
> Also, I don't know if I can apologize to the BBC or Doyle anymore, because I feel like that ship has long since sailed, but Kafka-- sorry I dragged you into this mess too. Your stuff-- great-- loved it *thumbs up*

I will burn you. I will burn... the heart out of you.

I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.

But we both know that's not quite true.

\-- The Great Game

 

..............

Sherlock doesn’t like the new stories. The ones about the mermaids and the princesses who marry and live happily ever after. The ones about wishing and hoping and believing, as if that is enough to guarantee you your heart’s desire. Fairytales, they’re called. There are others too, of course—others about miracle workers and people die in those, but there is always hope. 

Happy endings.

The old tales never used to have happy endings, he thinks savagely. They ended in death and hurt, because the old gods were cruel. And he is a remnant of those myths and stories—the ones that changed over the generations. And he lives them, every story, and it hurts. Because the old tales are not happy and Sherlock is nothing but a myth.  
…….

John changes things. John’s palm brushes his and, for a blessed moment, Sherlock thinks that he’s no longer living a dream. But then he remembers that humans were part of the myths too. Brave, loving humans, and he understands John’s place in his story. 

He plays his violin, the best of his pieces, and lures John in, the song vibrating around their tiny flat. It matches it’s beat to John’s heart, the heart of flesh and blood that is the point of their sordid little story. And John comes, drawn by the music, because John cannot help himself. 

And then John does something entirely unexpected.

“You’re a siren,” John breathes. Which throws a wrench in the works, because Sherlock didn’t expect him to recognize that. No one recognizes him, not anymore and it is possible, just possible, that he has gotten careless because of it. But then his thoughts stutter off, because John is by his side and his fingers are reverently brushing Sherlock’s cheeks and lips and neck. 

“You know what that means, then,” Sherlock tells him. He turns his head and kisses John’s fingertips and John is lost, because that is how easy this is. 

John doesn’t acknowledge his statement. “The sirens stopped singing long ago,” he says, dropping his hand. “So why are you still here?”

“I have a story to finish,” Sherlock tells him. He picks up his violin once more.

“And you’re part of it.”  
………….

The immortals died out when their time passed. That is the way of things—the new replaces the old and ideas breathe only as long as people talk about them.

Sherlock doesn’t know why.

But he’s one of the youngest.

And yet, he’s been breathing for a very, very long time.

…………

John is sleeping and Sherlock sits by the side of his bed, one hand hovering over John’s chest. It rises and falls, a steady, soft beat. John sleeps in a soft cotton shirt and boxers—he sleeps on his back and he almost never snores, but, sometimes, he has nightmares. And throughout it all, his beautiful heart keeps up. 

John opens his eyes. “That’s a bit creepy, you know,” he tells the ceiling. “Particularly when you do it for more than one night in a row.”

Sherlock doesn’t protest. 

He doesn’t protest either, when John pulls him down to the bed and John, in his turn, says nothing when Sherlock lifts up the edge of his shirt and curls up with his head on his chest. The lovely heart beats fractionally faster and Sherlock wants to see if he can make it accelerate even more. 

He keeps his head pressed to the left of John’s chest, listening as his fingers caress John’s ribs and skin and yes, there’s an answering beat. He takes off his shirt and fits his chest over John’s, so that he can feel the rhythm against the empty cavity where his is not.

John’s breathing faster and his nails are clenching into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock thinks that he could speed up the heart more and his fingers dip experimentally below John’s waistband. And there, that is working but then John is unexpected again. And he grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and kisses him, lips on lips and his heart is thundering and rushing under Sherlock and yes, this is perfect.

“But it’s not fair,” Sherlock says, when they pull apart. He bites his lips. “These old myths—they’re not fair.”

John is silent. He holds Sherlock’s hand to his chest, the long fingers cupping over his heart. “What does it mean?” he asks. “You being a siren?”

Sherlock hesitates. 

“It’s not that important,” he says, because all the good stories are built on lies and suspense.

“You’ll find out.”  
……………

There are things you need as an immortal and they’re never properly explained. 

There are people who become part of your story and they’re never properly explained either.

The year is 2011.

But John Watson has always been a part of his story.  
…

“I need your heart,” Sherlock tells him matter-of-factly. “Because I don’t have one.”

John pauses, his hand slipping over his chest to feel the thrumming. Red and violent and beating just a little bit faster at Sherlock’s proposition. “I don’t know,” he says, maybe because he feels like he ought to protest. “I’m kind of attached to it.” 

Sherlock shrugs, not because John’s life doesn’t mean much but because the outcome of this scenario has already been decided. “It wants to belong to me,” he points out, a little impatiently. “It’s wanted to be mine since that day at pool or were you not listening? So hand it over John, and don’t fuss so.”

Sherlock thinks in terms of ends—If there’s a place they must reach, will reach, then why tarry about denying it? The prophecies are never wrong. And there is a logical sense here too—John would die before he saw Sherlock harmed. And Sherlock cannot live without John’s heart. The conclusion, is, therefore, obvious. 

“You’re wrong,” John snaps. He’s getting riled up at Sherlock’s callousness, Sherlock thinks. Wants to deny the facts despite the blatant evidence staring him in the face, the beat ringing in his ears. 

But then John stops, thinking, and the color washes back into his cheeks. His lips curve in a secret smile, the anger dissipating. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, his eyes narrowing to a lazer-like focus. He strides forwards, stepping straight over the coffee table. “What is it? What have I missed?”

“You’re wrong,” John repeats and he’s got that smile, that “you’re an idiot” smile that so rarely lights upon his face. 

Sherlock pauses and drops to his knees on John’s chair. He leans his head against John’s chest, his hands coming up to reverently brush his shoulders. And he hopes a little. Because he likes John’s heart in John’s chest. Because he likes John, though it is his heart he wants the most. 

Sherlock wants to be wrong. He wants to believe that he can have John and his heart and his mind and his body—“Well, go on then,” he says. “What am I wrong about?”

“It doesn’t want to be yours,” John tells him, gently prying him away. And Sherlock doesn’t have a heart, but his mouth is uncomfortably dry and his hands clench as he processes the words. 

“And you don’t have to claim it.” 

“Oh,” he says. “But—“ 

John raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, surely you know what I’m about to say? They do, you know. Everyone who’s listening—they figured this out before you did.”

Of course they did. But that's because they've heard this story before, in all its infinite variations, and it is always Sherlock's first time. 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says. And he doesn’t. If John’s heart doesn’t want to be his, then he’s going to shrivel away and die and surely, surely, this isn’t one of those stories? The ones about morals and taking things that are not yours? 

But no. Because John’s smiling, as if there’s something obvious that he’s missed. And John—John is his, so—

“Because it already IS yours, you daft bastard,” he says, and, really, perhaps Sherlock should have seen that coming. “It’s always been yours.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second. And then his fingers are fumbling at John’s shirt, undoing buttons so that he can press his ear against warm skin and there it is—a steady beat that’s his and his alone. 

“Ah,” Sherlock manages. “That’s—convenient.” 

John shrugs and smiles, one hand coming up to cradle Sherlock’s head to his chest. 

“It’s a fairytale,” he says. “ And sometimes—those are like that.” 

“So happily ever after, then?” Sherlock asks. He turns his face to press a kiss to the heart and thinks that perhaps there is something to be said after all for these stories, the new ones. 

“Yes. Exactly,” John agrees. 

“Happily ever after.”


End file.
